


it's not a dream anymore (it's worth fighting for)

by cool lesbian (falloutblink182)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crowley and Anathema Device are Friends (Good Omens), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Gabriel is a dick, Implied Sexual Content, Insecure Aziraphale (Good Omens), Insecure Crowley (Good Omens), Lesbian Anathema Device, SO MUCH FLUFF, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), absolutely love that thats a tag lmao, and i had a lot of little ideas in my mind that i HAD to write, as if thats a tag hskskskd, because im 19 years old and never left my emo phase apparently, but then everything changed when the plot bunnies attacked, crowley uses they/them pronouns, frank iero references, i just wanted to write something short and fluffy about them going to the beach, listen, non-binary Crowley, vague references to crowleys ear biting kink that apparently we've all decided is canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-26
Updated: 2019-08-03
Packaged: 2020-07-20 10:08:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19990372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/falloutblink182/pseuds/cool%20lesbian
Summary: In which Crowley drinks iced coffee and uses Pinterest, Aziraphale is very much in love, and recovery is a difficult process to go through (but easier when you have someone by your side).Or: England is currently in the middle of a heatwave and I hate it. I wrote a lot of this sat on the floor in front of two fans on one of the hottest ever recorded days in England - if I'm suffering, at least these dummies are living their best gay lives.





	1. it's like we're falling in love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from 'do you wanna get high?' by weezer

Although he wasn’t particularly vain, Aziraphale did consider himself to be rather intelligent, with a wide understanding of the world (indeed, one is bound to have a deep understanding of the world when one has lived in it for over 6000 years, but that is neither here nor there). One thing he truly does not understand, however, is the British weather. He has spent the majority of his 6000 years on earth in England, so has had plenty of time to get used to it, but still the weather confounds and perplexes him.

“Just last week I was sat here with a cup of cocoa, listening to the rain pour outside,” he ~~whines~~ says to his demonic companion, “and _now,_ well, it’s rather too hot for cocoa, and customers keep coming into the store in the hopes that there is air-conditioning, putting their sweaty hands all over my books, and –” he trails off with a frustrated noise and takes a sip of his tea. Crowley rolls their eyes fondly, their glasses hidden somewhere amongst the piles and piles of books.

“If you had air-conditioning, then maybe their hands wouldn’t be as sweaty.” Crowley takes a long sip of their iced tea, the ice rattling obnoxiously. Aziraphale glares at them, which only makes the demon smirk, their forked tongue flicking out briefly between their teeth.

“If I had air-conditioning, then that would only encourage more customers to come in!”

“Isn’t that what most shop-owners would want, angel?”

Crowley knows full well that Aziraphale is not like “most shop-owners”.

Aziraphale sighs a long, drawn-out sigh. “My dear, after 6000 years, do you not think that I would perhaps be aware of when you are simply trying to get a rise out of me?”

Crowley smiles up at Aziraphale from where they’re sitting. Well, “sitting” is generous. “Sprawling” is perhaps more accurate – Crowley is sprawled across an armchair, their legs flung over one armrest, the hand holding the empty iced coffee cup resting gently on their chest, and their long hair cascading over the side of the other arm of the chair and reaching towards the ground.

“Why, I don’t know what you’re talking about, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale huffs. “Of course you don’t, you wily thing.” Crowley’s smirk turns into a smile, their eyes wide and bright, and Aziraphale cannot help but smile back.

* * *

Crowley enters the bookshop in a swarm of floaty fabrics and theatricality. Summer is _their_ season, their snake-y biology loving the warmth and humidity that is usually fairly hard to come by in Britain. Therefore, they’re finding it easy to embrace this heatwave with fervid enthusiasm by finally being able to bring outfits from their _summer outfit inspo_ Pinterest board to life, in a flurry of black chiffon and lace and shapeless silhouettes.

“I’ve been thinking,” they declare, ignoring a startled customer and heading straight to where Aziraphale is sat pretending to read, but really keeping an eye on the customer that’s looking a bit too keenly at a copy of _Madame Bovary._

Aziraphale looks away from the customer to look up at Crowley. “Well, that’s always dangerous,” he says, ignoring the demon’s offended stammering. “What have you been thinking?”

Crowley pulls their sunglasses off with a flourish. The usual pair, Aziraphale notes belatedly, have been replaced with some garish bright pink monstrosity, with heart shaped lenses.

“We should go on holiday!” Crowley declares with a grin, with a hint of nervousness hidden somewhere on their face that only Aziraphale can find.

“A holiday?” Aziraphale takes in Crowley’s nervous excitement, the way their yellow eyes seem to be dancing, the way that one of their bony, freckled hands has found its way to rest on top of one of his smaller, rounder ones. “I’m guessing you have a pitch, of sorts, prepared to give me?”

Crowley grins wider. “You know me so well,” they say, and with a click of their fingers with their free hand the customer suddenly finds himself with the overwhelming urge to leave, and the sign on the door flips from _open_ to _closed._

Aziraphale closes his book with a sigh and waves his hand in a _get on with it!_ sort of gesture, but the fondness that emanates from him is clear and Crowley feels some of their anxiousness seep away.

“It’s ridiculously hot, angel, and I _know_ it’s a sign that the planet is dying, but! We should make the most of it!” Crowley speaks with their hands when they speak and although Aziraphale finds it rather endearing, he mourns the loss of touch from where Crowley’s hand was originally resting on his. Crowley doesn’t seem to notice and continues on their tirade.

“Summer is _wasted_ here in London – everybody is sweaty and gross and miserable, and I know you could do with a break from your dreaded customers, and, well, I think we could both use a break really, after, well, after _everything_ …” They trail off, and Aziraphale decides its too much to bear so he bites the bullet and takes Crowley’s hands in his. Both of them know that _everything_ refers to the ApocaNope, which they _still_ haven’t gotten round to talking about properly, just like they haven’t talked about the little changes in their relationship since the body swap– a gentle touch of the hand here, a soft kiss to the cheek there, perhaps an embrace that lasts a little too long to be considered platonic… they were finally free to want and have one another, after millennia of longing (from both sides). It was all very new and exciting and terrifying, so they were taking things slow.

“I think,” Aziraphale begins slowly, “That a getaway sounds wonderful.” He cups Crowley’s face with one hand, tracing a thumb over their cheekbone when they lean into his touch. “I assume you have a place in mind?”

Crowley lets their eyes flutter closed for a moment, before opening them again and nodding.

“There’s this holiday cottage available to rent – in the South Downs, near the coast… I believe you would describe it as “quaint”.”

Aziraphale runs a gentle hand through Crowley’s hair and smiles.

“That sounds perfect, my dear one,” he says, and Crowley _melts._

* * *

The picturesque South Downs cottage made Aziraphale say things like _oh, Crowley, isn’t it delightful!_ and _it’s just so enchanting!,_ which in turn made Crowley roll their eyes and pretend to gag, but Aziraphale saw the way their gaze lingered on the roses out front and the way they slowly ran their hands across the kitchen island.

There’s something that must be said about Crowley and Aziraphale – they may be two immortal beings, but overtime they have become overwhelmingly, well, _human._ They never planned on it, particularly, but they’ve both found that they rather enjoy the complex simplicities and simple complexities present in human life. So much so, that their own lives have been heavily influenced by the social norms that humans have. Being immortal beings, however, means that they live their otherwise mostly human lives on a much, much longer timescale than humans do.

For example, when you and I think of a “short seaside getaway”, we may think of a Bank Holiday weekend spent at the coast, or perhaps even spending a week there if the budget so allows. For two celestial beings such as Aziraphale and Crowley, beings that have all of eternity to relax (and, what’s more, they have no dreaded jobs to get back to once Monday comes, no responsibilities outside of themselves and each other), the idea that they hold of a “short seaside getaway” is just a tad longer than ours.

The owner of the cottage, Mr T Williams, was used to renting it out for usually a week at a time, occasionally two, rarely a month. When two strange men [1] contacted him about renting it for the rather vague _foreseeable future,_ he was apprehensive. One teeny demonic miracle later, however, had him changing his tune in no time and he was more than happy to let them stay and move in on such short notice.

On the first day Aziraphale goes to begin unpacking, but Crowley drags him into the garden and down towards a track, hidden behind the green, green trees at the back of the lawn. Crowley drags Aziraphale down the pathway, laughing at the angel’s questions and taking his hand in theirs. Eventually they come to a stop, and Aziraphale’s mouth snaps shut when he sees where Crowley has led them.

Before them, the trail leads downwards in a beaten stone staircase. The bottom steps are concealed with golden sand. Sand that stretches towards the sea, which goes on and on and on and _on._

Aziraphale breathes deeply, taking in the smell of chips and sun-cream, the taste of salt on his lips.

Aziraphale looks at Crowley – looks at their red hair blowing gently in the sea breeze, how the sun illuminates them in a way that makes them _glow,_ at their stupid pink heart-shaped glasses concealing bright and hopeful eyes.

And it’s stupidly hot. And the beach is stupidly crowded. And it’s stupidly loud.

And Aziraphale doesn’t hear _any of it,_ because Crowley is there, and alive, and beautiful, and _safe._ Crowley is there with perfectly messy hair and a smile on their face and their hand is in his.

 _I love you,_ he thinks. He thinks of saying it, letting those three words tumble from his lips, and hearing those words repeated, of what it would be like to kiss Crowley, _properly_. He squeezes Crowley’s hand. There are so many words he wishes to say to Crowley – he wants to say _I need you,_ and _I’m sorry_ and _I’m glad you’re here, with me._

He wants to say _I love you,_ and he has for a long time, but he was scared – not for himself, but for Crowley.

There’s nothing to fear now, though.

“What do you think?” Crowley says, gesturing towards the beach.

“I love you,” Aziraphale replies, and Crowley blinks, takes a step back. Aziraphale takes a step forward.

“I’m in love with you,” Aziraphale reiterates. He takes off Crowley’s sunglasses.

“I’d quite like to kiss you now,” he says, voice almost a whisper, “Is that alright with you, my dear?”

Crowley nods dumbly, and then Aziraphale is kissing them, and 6000 years’ worth of tension is lifted like a great weight from their body.

The two eventually pull apart, and Crowley finds their voice.

“I love you too, but you’ve known that for a while,” they stroke the ridge of Aziraphale’s nose, the curve of his brow, because they _can._ “It’s nice to finally say it in so many words though.” They bend down, letting their nose nudge Aziraphale’s.

“It’s nice to hear it. Although I must tell you, my darling,” Crowley resolutely does _not_ blush at this, “All those times that you’ve said it before – at the church, with my coat, with _Hamlet…_ and really, countless other times – I swear to you, _I was listening._ I heard you.”

Crowley clings onto Aziraphale like a lifeline.

“Come on, Angel,” they say, and if the words sound a little choked, then neither of them says anything. “Let’s go down to the beach.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] Technically, neither of the men were men. Aziraphale never particularly thought much about his gender – he supposes if he absolutely must have one, then it would be male, but only by a very loose definition. Crowley, on the other hand, viewed gender as their plaything and thought it to be something quite wonderful to explore and to push the limits of. Simply put, Aziraphale’s response to gender was a polite 'thanks so much for offering, but I’d really rather not' whereas Crowley’s response to gender was 'hell fucking yes'.


	2. get closer to me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This bit was very heavily inspired by 'Carry Me Out' by Mitski, which is the most Crowley song to ever exist, and also inspired a little bit by "I Will", also by Mitski. The chapter title, however, is from "From Eden" by Hozier.

A week or so into their getaway, Aziraphale drags Crowley to a secluded spot on the beach with a picnic basket full to bursting and a huge tartan blanket that Crowley threatens to throw into the ocean. Aziraphale gets to work unpacking the food, swatting Crowley away when they offer to help. Crowley relents with a huff and leans back, stretches their neck with their face turned towards the sun. Aziraphale understands why humans are so addicted to snapping pictures every second of the day on their beloved phones – he wants to keep this image of Crowley forever and ever.

Today they’re wearing tight black jeans a cropped t-shirt that make Aziraphale want to do some not very angelic things. They’ve kicked off their trainers and have kicked their bare feet over the edge of the blanket, wiggling their toes in the sand. Their eyes are shut as they face the sky. Their glasses have been chucked carelessly beside them and a carefree smile has found its way onto their face.

Their hair – growing longer by the day, to Aziraphale’s delight – is tied in a sloppy bun. A strand has fallen loose, gently tickling Crowley’s nose. Aziraphale reaches out to tuck it behind their ear.

Crowley opens their eyes slowly, still smiling as they take a glass of wine from Aziraphale.

“What are we toasting to?” they ask leaning in and snaking their body around the angel.

Aziraphale hums for a moment before deciding.

“To this freckle,” he says, lifting Crowley’s hand and softly kissing one of the many freckles that were on the inside of Crowley’s wrist. “To this single freckle.”

* * *

They spend their days walking along the beach, drinking tea in the garden, exploring the neighbouring towns and villages. They let themselves relax. They wander idly around markets with their arms linked together, tasting fancy cheese and olives. Crowley buys a kite and impresses a gaggle of kids at the beach with impossible tricks – Aziraphale watches on with fondness as they pass the string to a girl with pigtails and dungarees, guiding her hands gently and applauding her enthusiastically when she succeeds in mimicking one of his tricks.

They get chips, and eat them on the pier. They sit on the floor, at the edge, their legs dangling towards the sea below them. A seagull steals one of Aziraphale’s chips and he looks so outraged that Crowley laughs until they cry. They stroll down the seafront, hand in hand, past the casinos and arcades and B&B’s. They drag one another into tacky souvenir shops to try on all the novelty hats and glasses they can find. Crowley buys huge black floppy straw hat and a stick of rock from one vendor.

“What do you think?” They ask, hat perched on top of their bright red curls, grinning as they suck on the stick of rock between their teeth. Aziraphale doesn’t reply with words, just plucks the rock out of their mouth with one hand and pulls them down by the shirt with his other and kisses the taste of mint from their lips.

* * *

And so their days are filled with love and safety, but when the sky grows dark, they lie in bed and talk. They talk about the ApocaWhoops, about their fears, about Heaven and Hell. They say things that they’ve wanted to say for 6000 years.

 _I was so scared of losing you,_ Aziraphale says under the cloak of night, _I’m still scared._

Crowley holds him tight. _I’m scared too. Let’s be scared together. There’s no need to be brave._

One night, Aziraphale wakes to a cold bed. He sits up, frowning at the empty spot next to him as though that will make Crowley materialise back there. He calls their name, but when no response comes, he swings his legs out of bed and slides his (tartan) slippers on. He shuffles through the dark cottage with the duvet wrapped around his shoulders, concern growing at every empty room he passes. When he wanders downstairs, he feels a cool breeze ruffle his hair. The door that leads to the back door has been left open, and in the darkness he can see Crowley’s silhouette.

Aziraphale steps outside, breathes in the night air, watches Crowley. They’re sat on one of the cheap white plastic garden chairs that came with the place, wearing nothing but an old, baggy t-shirt and a pair of boxers. Their knees are tucked into their chest, bare feet curving over the edge of the seat. The moon hangs in the sky, big and bright, and illuminates Crowley’s pale skin and makes their eyes glow.

“I made some of them, y’know.” Their voice is soft and quiet. Aziraphale startles a bit, not realising that Crowley even knew of his presence.

“Some of what, my dear?”

Crowley gestures vaguely towards the sky. “The stars. Constellations. Mapped ‘em out, put ‘em in just the right places.” There’s a sadness in their voice that Aziraphale wants to wipe away, erase, vanquish forevermore. He swallows.

“They’re beautiful, my dear. They’ve led lost sailors back home for eons.” Aziraphale steps forward, removes the duvet from his shoulders, wraps it around Crowley instead. He gently removes the scrunchie from their hair, letting the loose ponytail tumble down and unleash the night. He begins to comb through it carefully with his fingers, and Crowley leans into his touch.

“Couldn’t see ‘em back in London. Not really.” Crowley’s voice isn’t much more than a whisper, as if they’re confessing a great secret. “Too much light pollution. But here…” they trail off, clenching their eyes shut. Aziraphale makes what he hopes is a sound of encouragement to keep going.

“One time – back in, oh, I don’t know, the late 80’s, maybe? I was – I was having a tough time, I guess? Everything was just going _terribly,_ and I was just – I was so frustrated, and angry, with everything that’s ever happened, and I looked up at the sky and I _couldn’t see the stars –_ I don’t know. I think that must’ve been the straw that broke the camel’s back, y’know? For some reason, it just made me lose it completely. I got in the Bentley and I just _drove._ It was so dark and it was raining, shit, it was raining so much. It was reckless but I just didn’t care – I drove in the dark, in the rain, I drove until it wasn’t dark anymore because I had reached the countryside and I could finally look up and–”

“See the stars.” Aziraphale says when Crowley trails off. Crowley twists around in the chair, finally looking at the angel with an open and vulnerable expression on their face. They nod.

“I got soaked. Ruined my shoes. Didn’t care. I sat on the roof of my Bentley in the pouring rain until the sun rose and looked at the stars.”

Aziraphale snaps his fingers. The plastic chair miraculously becomes an exquisitely carved wooden bench, long enough for at least two people (or supernatural entities) to sit comfortably. He sits next to Crowley and pulls them into his arms, and Crowley goes willingly.

“I never – I didn’t design them to explode. To die,” Crowley mumbles into Aziraphale’s neck, “That wasn’t in the original blueprint. But then – then I – I fell. I fell, and now they-” he cuts off with a pained noise, and Aziraphale feels something settle heavily in his heart.

“Oh, _dearest,”_ he says, and can only stroke Crowley’s hair. “None of it is your fault.”

And with that, Crowley buries their face into Aziraphale’s shirt, and cries and cries and cries.


	3. waiting for your arms to part

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from hazel by cavetown (a very ineffable husbands song, may i just say).

The next time Aziraphale wakes to an empty bed, he panics only briefly before throwing on his tartan dressing gown and heading downstairs, with every intent of going to the garden to find his ineffable partner and bringing them back into the warmth. When he nears the bottom of the stairs, however, he pauses.

He can hear… singing?

And – he sniffs – yes, there’s definitely something cooking. Something that smells sweet and fruity. He smiles and heads into the kitchen.

Crowley is stood over the stove, singing to their self as they prod at something with a spatula. Their hair is tied in a loose messy ponytail with a black velvet scrunchie. Through the open window, the rising sun paints the kitchen in a soft amber glow and Aziraphale can hear the bird chirping as they begin to wake.

Crowley is wearing a black apron.

Crowley is _only_ wearing a black apron.

Aziraphale feels his face flush slightly at seeing Crowley’s completely bare freckled arse, but Crowley is completely oblivious to his plight, still not noticing the lingering angel. They pour more mixture from a jug into the pan and continue to sing.

 _you're on my mind_  
_and the things that you say hurt me most of the time_  
_but i'm on your side_  
_cause i know i'm not easy to deal with sometimes_  
_but i'm sinking fast, so it's alright_

Crowley makes a surprised noise in the back of their throat as a certain angel tangles his arms around their waist, planting kisses along their neck.

“Good morning to you too,” Crowley chuckles, moving the pan off the heat and twisting round to meet Aziraphale’s mouth with theirs. “I’m making you pancakes.”

“You mean crepes?” Aziraphale trails a hand up and down Crowley’s back. Crowley rolls their eyes.

“No, I don’t mean crepes, _mon ange,_ I mean pancakes. They’re completely different.” If Crowley’s voice goes a little higher in pitch than usual towards the end of their sentence as Aziraphale’s hand ventures lower, well, that’s no-one’s business but theirs.

Aziraphale hums into Crowley’s chest. “They look an awful like crepes, my dear,” his hand creeps even lower and Crowley absolutely _does not_ yelp. “And you know the saying – if it looks like a crepe, quacks like a crepe…”

Crowley’s skin is turning closer and closer to the colour of their hair as Aziraphale’s other hand plays with the edge of the apron before disappearing under it.

“What about – the pancakes?” Crowley manages to say, which they think is mighty impressive of them, considering the circumstances.

Aziraphale reaches up on his toes to nip at Crowley’s ear. Crowley is suddenly very glad they decided to Make An Effort™ that morning.

“You mean the crepes?” Aziraphale says, and snaps his fingers. “I’m sure they can wait, my love. What do you think?”

“Ngk,” Crowley replies, which is by their standards fairly coherent.

“Wonderful!” Aziraphale sounds like an overly enthusiastic primary school teacher more than anything else. With a fluid motion he pushes his hand through Crowley’s hair, pulling out the scrunchie and throwing it somewhere forgotten.

“Thank you for making breakfast, my darling,” he whispers lowly into Crowley’s ear. “Now let me show you just how grateful I am.”

And if Crowley thinks it’s a bit strange that Aziraphale would show him gratitude for something that he ignores in order to run his hands over every inch of Crowley’s body – well, Crowley _certainly_ doesn’t have any complaints. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the song crowley sings is 'she's the prettiest girl at the party and she can prove it with a solid right hook' by frank iero. sorry this is so short, but im meeting one of my best internet friends for the first time tomorrow (!!!!!!) so im a little bit all over the place !!


	4. all I know is you look like my home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> if there's a lot of tenderness dot com in this chapter it's because i wrote most of it in the dark whilst listening to girl in red. lonely lesbian hours now manifest in the form of writing good omens fanfiction i guess.
> 
> chapter title from 'gum toe and sole' by gus dapperton

The sun beats down, and Crowley thinks that if they were anywhere else the heat may be almost too much to deal with. By the coast, however, the sea breeze keeps it cool enough to enjoy a pleasant walk along the beach. They’re carrying their shoes in one hand (in order to let their toes sink into the warm sand with every step) and holding Aziraphale’s hand with their other. Aziraphale listens as Crowley rambles on about some new band they’ve discovered, humming and nodding in all the right places, when all of a sudden, he removes his hand from Crowley’s to wipe self-consciously on his trouser leg.

“Angel? What’s wrong?” Crowley frowns, their voice already full of concern. Aziraphale flushes a bit and attempts to wave them off, dismissing them with a stammered excuse and refusing to make eye contact. He wrings his hands in front of him – a nervous habit he picked up some time in the late 16th Century and never quite dropped – and his gaze briefly catches on something in the distance before he purposefully looks away again. It’s a gaze so subtle, so quick, that most people wouldn’t pick up on it.

Crowley is not most people.

They take in Aziraphale’s nervous hands, and they track the angel’s gaze across the beach. When Crowley finds where Aziraphale’s gaze landed, it only serves to confuse them further.

“Do you know him or something?” Crowley gestures towards the man that seems to have upset Aziraphale so much. The man doesn’t seem to be anything out of the ordinary – he’s just _a man,_ and yeah, okay, those muscles and _that hair_ may be considered to be very attractive by human standards, but Crowley never quite understood the obsession with that sort of body type. They certainly don’t understand the group of sunbathers shamelessly checking the guy out and giggling to themselves when the guy honest to Someone _winks at them._

“I – no, I don’t know him, why would I know him?” Aziraphale still won’t meet Crowley’s eye, so Crowley sighs a long-suffering sigh and pulls them both to a stop. They gently tilt Aziraphale’s head to face them.

“Aziraphale. What’s going on?” The angel in question sighs.

“Really, my dear, it’s _nothing–_ ”

“Really, my _dear,_ it’s clearly _something,”_ Aziraphale stutters indignantly at Crowley’s poor imitation, and Crowley just smirks.

Eventually the angel gives in. “It’s just, well, don’t you think he’s… you know.” He waves his hand in a vague gesture, and Crowley raises one eyebrow.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to give me a little bit more detail than that, angel.” Aziraphale makes a noise of frustration.

“He’s – _ugh,_ he’s… he’s _handsome!”_ It’s quite possible he says the last word rather loudly. He winces, going slightly red at the realisation that nearby beach-goers had heard and were now looking at him funny. Crowley, for their part, only looks confused.

“Handsome? I mean, I guess, if you like that sort of thing.” The look of confusion turns to a look of mild panic. “ _Do_ you like that sort of thing? Because I really don’t plan on starting to go to the gym, and I-” Aziraphale quickly cuts them off before they can work their way into a spiral.

“No! No, no, that’s not what I meant _at all,_ oh my, just forget I said anything, okay?” And with that, he starts walking again, and Crowley has to speed up a little to catch up.

“What? No, I’m not going to just forget it, angel, you’re upset.”

“I’m fine, dear.”

“ _Angel.”_

The tone of Crowley’s voice makes Aziraphale stop and turn around to look at Crowley’s pleading face. He bites his lip and closes his eyes, and figures, _what the hell._

They’ve already seen each other at their most vulnerable, through the tears and the terror and the _fucking apocalypse._ They’ve seen each other stripped to the bone, and they’ve helped each other grow back from nothing. This, Aziraphale realises, seems incredibly small in comparison to everything they’ve been through together. Crowley’s stuck by him all this time. They’re hardly going to leave them now, because of _this._

He takes a deep breath.

“It’s just – somebody said something to me,” he begins. “And I suppose it stuck in my mind.”

Crowley says nothing, just takes his hands in theirs, tracing circles with the pads of their thumbs on Aziraphale’s palms.

“It’s silly, it really is, but – do you ever wish that I, uh, that I looked more like…” he trails off gesturing towards the guy. Crowley feels their confusion meter rise higher and higher.

“Like _him?_ ” they ask incredulously, “ _Why?”_

Aziraphale opens their mouth to respond, and promptly closes it again.

“Don’t get me wrong – if you, for whatever reason, decided tomorrow that you wanted to get absolutely jacked, hitting the gym every day and drinking protein shakes and whatnot, I would support you, but…” Crowley tilts their head to the side. “But that wouldn’t be _you.”_

Aziraphale reaches up to take Crowley’s glasses off, taking in the open and earnest look on the demon’s face.

“My dear… you cannot honestly say that you find _this,”_ he gestures down at himself, “more attractive than…” he glances back over towards the man.

Crowley looks over at the man and, oh. _Good Lord._ He’s _flexing_ now. Ugh. Crowley makes a noise of disgust.

“Angel, I assure you – there is not one being in existence that I find more attractive than you. _Especially_ not that tosser.” Crowley’s eyes widen suddenly, and they begin frantically rambling. “Not that I love you solely for how you look – I mean, that’s part of it, I guess, like I love you because you’re a bit of a bastard, and you’re kind, and you hate customers but you love humans, and because you’re smart and brave – but I also love you because you’ve had the same hair for over 6000 years, and because you have squishy cheeks and dimples, and I love your hands because they’re always warm and soft. I love your body as it is, because it’s _you._ Why would I ever want anything else? 6000 years, angel, and not once have I met anyone who I’ve wanted more than you.” Crowley pauses, then adds “Not once have I ever met anyone else who I’ve wanted, full stop. It’s only ever been you.”

Aziraphale breathes a shuddery breath. He shuts his eyes tight, and Crowley wraps their arms around him. They rub circles into his back until Aziraphale can find his voice.

“I told you it was ridiculous,” he says eventually, eyes watery. Crowley smiles gently at them.

“It’s not ridiculous, you could never be ridiculous,” they say reassuringly, but then the smile vanishes from their face. “Hold up. You said someone said something?”

Aziraphale suddenly feels what is commonly known as Regret.

“I- What? Noooo I didn’t Nobody said anything, ever.” He splutters.

“Yes, you did! Who was it?”

“Crowley-”

“Who!”

“It hardly matters-”

“ _Who was it?”_

“Oh, for Go- for Sat- for _somebody’s_ sake, it was Gabriel, alright? He just – he made a passing comment about how I should think of losing the gut, but it’s _fine,_ okay?”

Crowley goes very still, and very quiet. They bare their teeth, fangs on show, and a hiss resonates from deep in their chest.

“I’ll kill him.” They spit out.

“You’ll do no such thing!” Aziraphale whispers furiously.

“A _zzzzz_ iraphale-”

“ _No,_ Crowley, I mean it. He’s not worth the trouble.”

“Maybe _sss_ o, but _you_ are. He shouldn’t talk to you that way.”

Crowley knows that the yellow of their eyes has most likely spread to conceal all of the white, so they take their glasses back from Aziraphale and shove them back on. Aziraphale makes a somewhat affronted noise in the back of his throat at this, but doesn’t try to stop them.

“The way he spoke to you – well, me, but he thought it was you – like you’re worth nothing… he’s an idiot, angel.” Crowley cups Aziraphale’s face in their hands carefully. “You’re worth _everything_. He shouldn’t get to just-”

“Crowley. It hardly matters now, does it? I doubt we’ll see him again for a long while. He’s not worth all this – I don’t care about what he thinks, I promise. All I care about is you and I.”

With that, Aziraphale takes Crowley’s hand and begins pulling them back towards the direction of the cottage.

“Come on, my love. Let’s go home.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> handshake meme one hand is me, a dyke, other hand is crowley, an intellectual - in the middle is 'finding (most) men ugly'


	5. what you wore (and how you bore it so well)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tw/ for attempted sexual assault and misogynistic language. 
> 
> title from 'somebody' by dream wife, which is a song i like 2 listen 2 when im filled with more female rage than usual. 
> 
> thanks 2 imaginemagics for the inspo for this chapter :-)

Most evenings Crowley and Aziraphale would watch the sunset whilst strolling down the beach, or whilst sat in the comfort of their own cottage with a glass of wine. Occasionally they would decide to do something a little different, and wander into the nearby town to visit one of many bars and pubs. Tonight, Crowley was sat alone in one of these bars waiting for their angel to join them (Aziraphale had spent the day travelling back to London to collect some books from his store that he realised that he simply could not do without a moment longer, and Crowley had opted to sleep in and tend to (read: yell at) the houseplants they had started keeping in the spare room of the cottage). In typical British fashion, it was raining outdoors despite it being summer, but the bar was still fairly busy. Crowley didn’t mind. Crowley enjoyed how they went relatively unnoticed in the hustle and bustle of people getting gradually more and more intoxicated.

“Well, he- _llo_ there gorgeous,” a voice leers from beside them, and Crowley groans internally. So much for being relatively unnoticed.

“Go away,” they say, without looking up from their phone. When the owner of the voice moves his chair closer, Crowley reflexively moves their chair further away.

“Aw, c’mon, beautiful, don’t be like that.” the guy leans in close as he drawls, and Crowley can smell beer and stale cigarettes on his breath. They wrinkle their nose in disgust. “I just wanna get to know you, why don’t you give me your number?”

“I don’t have a phone.” Crowley responds, whilst typing out a text to Anathema. _drunk dude is trying 2 come on 2 me when im obvs not interested. men r the worst!!!!!!!!!!_

The guy is stumped for a moment and takes a second to figure out his next move. Crowley continues to visibly use the phone that they claim they don’t own.

_Anathema: omg ikr i will never understand why they cant take no as an answer!!_

_Anathema: and ppl wonder why i “”turned gay”” smh THIS IS WHY_

Crowley laughs at Anathema’s text, and the guy sees this as an opportunity to swoop back in.

“Who’s that then? A boyfriend?”

Crowley finally looks up from their phone to take in the guy. He is, as men go, rather underwhelming, in Crowley’s opinion. He's wearing a tight-fitted shirt that emphasises his bulging biceps, and his dirty blonde hair was what some would call “artfully tousled”. Crowley just thought it made him look like a prick. There is, Crowley observes, a dark stain down the front of his shirt that one can only assume is beer. Crowley looks the man straight in the eyes and says, “are you still here?”

The guy just smiles lopsidedly.

“That’s not an answer to my question.”

“It’s none of your fucking business who I’m talking to.” Crowley curls their lip and shuffles their seat further away from him.

“I think you’ll find it is my fucking business,” the guy says, leaning further into Crowley’s space and wrapping an arm round Crowley’s shoulders. Crowley rolls their eyes and shrugs it off.

“Oh? And why is that?”

“Because if I’m fucking you into your mattress tonight,” his voice has turned into a low sneer in Crowley’s ear. Crowley thinks he’s aiming for intimidating. Crowley isn’t intimidated. Crowley is _irritated._ “Then I don’t want any fucking _boyfriend_ of yours walking in on us halfway through.” With this final snarl, he gets cocky and runs his hand up Crowley’s thigh and under their skirt. He quickly removes it, however, when he finds that _somehow_ it has rather caught on fire.

“Fuck, _fuck,_ shit, ow, FUCK!” The man flaps his arm around wildly, pouring other peoples drinks on it to try to quell the flames and causing quite the commotion. Nothing seems to be able to put the fire out. Crowley ignores the panicked drinkers that surround them in favour of taking a long sip of their drink and going back to their phone. _he got bold so i set his hand on fire. 2 harsh? idk. r we still on for brunch next tues??_

Aziraphale enters the bar just as Crowley receives a reply. _not too harsh AT ALL. i personally would’ve set his whole body on fire but whatevs!!_ sends Anathema. _and yes absolutely !! i found a new facemask recipe that ive been dying 2 try out_

“Oh dear, not _again.”_ Aziraphale’s voice is filled with reluctant acceptance. He pushes his way through the crowds of other patrons who are screaming and running away from the fire and he sits down next to Crowley. Crowley lights up at Aziraphale’s presence and their whiskey and coke spontaneously turns into a icy mojito with a little paper umbrella.

“Aziraphale! How was the shop?” They lean in to kiss Aziraphale’s cheek, already moving their chair to sit closer to the angel’s warmth.

“Oh, the shop was fine, I got all the books I needed – plus extras, I just couldn’t resist, you know how I am about the Romantics, and, oh, a lovely little bakery has opened just up the road…” Aziraphale shakes himself back to the present and the matter at hand. “My dear, are you quite alright?”

Crowley quirks an eyebrow at him over their cocktail. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Aziraphale gestures towards the hubbub going on behind them.

“Oh. That.” Crowley sighs into their drink.

“Crowley. Did something happen?” Aziraphale gently takes Crowley’s hand in both of his, and part of Crowley wants to roll their eyes at the gesture and part of Crowley kind of wants to curl up and cry at how tenderly Aziraphale is treating them.

They push their glasses up on top of their head. “I’m fine, angel. I promise.”

Aziraphale spares another glance towards the crowd behind him. The fire seems to have stopped, and although the man _miraculously_ doesn’t seem to be aware that Crowley is still sat at the bar, he is nonetheless yelling something about “frigid psycho bitches” and glaring at anyone who tries to calm him down whilst Crowley pointedly ignores everything going on behind them.

“We could go somewhere else, somewhere quieter,” Aziraphale suggests, his voice soft. “In fact-” he fakes a yawn, “-I’m _ever_ so tired after my trip to London, my dear, perhaps we could just head back to the cottage?”

Crowley looks away, hiding a smile.

“Okay angel, okay. If you insist.” And with that, Aziraphale leads Crowley out of the bar hand in hand, leaving the man who is no longer on fire (but is suffering from some nasty second-degree burns) spluttering indignantly to a non-caring crowd in their wake.

And when the guy finally stumbles back out to his BMW and finds his tyres slashed – well, Aziraphale would deny all involvement if you asked him.

(But he has never been a particularly good liar). 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you think the way the unnamed character speaks 2 crowley is too extreme or unrealistic then ur not speaking to enough women / female-presenting people in ur life.


End file.
